


Accio Potter!

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: Warnings: AU, EWE. Hogwarts 6th Year, November. Kissage & sop.Author's Notes: There's this marvellous fic by called 'Accio, Spouse', which I'm sure you've read. This is not the same plot. I've not lifted it, lock, stock and barrel. However, I can't believe no one's ever thought of this, though I haven't come across it in all I've read. If you have, then please forgive. I've not done it intentionally.Dedicated to easilymused1956 for always listening to my ranting, and to occho and lariopefic, for their birthdays. Likely this isn't what you wanted, but this is what I've to give, sorry!(Likely one my most favourite fics I've ever written in this fandom. So, so ancient a fic...)





	Accio Potter!

It happened in the winking of an eye. One moment, he’d  _his_ eye on the snitch, whizzing skywards at breakneck speeds—well, one of them, at least. The other was on Potter, naturally. Tracking the git, so as to snatch that optimum moment right out from under his always-where-it-shouldn’t-be nose.

Potter was coming up fast. He’d sighted it, too, a mere moment before; a glimmering golden whirr fifty yards or thereabouts above the right-hand Gryffindor goal hoop. Had taken off like a sodding rocket from his slower ramble about the perimeter of play, where’d he’d been nimbly bobbing bludgers as if they were spitballs, showing off, of course; and had risen up—up, dead on course, hand already out and reaching, the smarmy little prick.

Draco wasn’t planning on letting him have it: he was closer, and the Snitch was on a clear trajectory directly toward him, sure as shooting, and this day would be the day he’d pound the git’s nose in the mud. Well…the actual mud was far below them, but what it came down to was that Draco would finally win, and break this mile-wide losing streak of his. 

The next moment, his fine plan went to Hades in a hand basket. And he shouted—no, screamed, inwardly:  _No!_

**_NO_ ** _!_

And time wobbled and did that horrid elastic thing it had done so often before—when Katie Bell was cursed; when the Dark Lord had demanded his fealty; when he chose between doing the two things he wanted to do to Potter and landed on the middle road, inflicting the least damage and the maximum humiliation with the crunch of a shiny boot tip to a too-straight nose.

It slowed to the merest crawl; slugs meandering would be fast as lightning in comparison, and Draco heard every rasping breath he took, every beat of his heart thudding, every brush of eyelash tangling. 

It went like this, that ten seconds: One hundred yards or more below, Weaselbee deflected the quaffle from the Gryff’s hoop, up and away. It knocked straight into a stray bludger, sending it arcing out of its orbit at double the speed—a ruddy billiard ball of a missile. Potter was right above it, by only fifty yards; it clipped his broom on its upward spiral.

Potter, clearly not expecting interference from below and behind, his eyes fixed only on the snitch rising, his length fully extended along the stick, was knocked abruptly loose. He turned a reverse somersault in the air, and promptly began falling.

 _Falling_!

Draco inhaled sharply—he was excellent at Occlumens, exceeding well-versed at Legilimens and deft as snidgets at Potions, but there was one thing that not one of his school fellows or professors truly realized, not even that scurrilous, nosy Potter: he was nearly without compare at wandless incantation. There were no wands to be had during Quidditch; it was considered unsporting.

_No help for it!_

“Wingardium Leviosa!” he shouted, without thinking, pointing straight at Potter’s form, tumbling now, horribly, suddenly broomless; entirely out of control, arms flailing madly through the snapping winds of a blustery early November Saturday morning. There was a scream blooming on Potter’s too-red lips; Draco barely heard the tail end of it through the rushing wind buffeting them.

The scarlet-and-gold figure slowed, but not fast enough. He would be beyond Draco’s magical reach in a matter of seconds, all the time it took to cast another Wingardium and then some— _No good_! Draco shrieked at himself.  _What next, you blighter_?

 _NO! NO!_ **NO** _! It was not meant to be this way_! howled all the rest of him—wordlessly, breathlessly.

Oh, but Sixth Year had gone so swimmingly well thus far—not. First, the Dark Lord invaded his home at will, Marking him, terrifying his mother. Then he—or  _it_ , Draco had thought disparagingly, for the Dark Lord was a caricature of a proper man, much less a true Wizard—laid a geas upon Draco, the youngest Malfoy, to commit murder in cold blood—upon his very own Headmaster, the daft old codger Draco had both admired and been taught to despise for years now.

Then he broke Potter’s nose on the Express—not entirely from spite, or anything near as simple as childish rivalries. No, it was more that he’d had to leave some mark upon the prick, he was that furious—that disappointed. It was Potter’s fault, all of it, that Draco’s world had come tumbling down. His Mark, the near murder of a schoolmate, his shattered dreams of a comfortable life. Everything led back to him; all disasters could be laid at his door. He  _hated_  Potter; had hated him from the very moment his hand was refused, and by hating, he meant no mere boyish temper tantrum, but true, soul-deep, bone-bitten fury. 

Hated him  _so_  much, for not to hate him was unthinkable. He flinched away from feeling any other emotion towards Potter—ever. No pity for the orphan, no admiration for the Seeker, no awe at the Hero; nothing— _no_. For once that started, once the floodgates were opened even the tiniest crack, what he’d want to wreak upon Potter would bear no resemblance to revenge. A broken nose had been by far the safest thing he could’ve done; indeed, it was the only, and now he avoided the fidgety little rat like plague. He’d business of his own to go about, Draco did. He wouldn’t even think of anything else, he vowed to himself steadfastly, and that meant keeping his eyes averted at meals, and in the locker room showers, and in Potions and Transfiguration. He wouldn’t look, nor stare, nor think too deeply.

And now he  _saw_ , and it was not to be contemplated. Wingardium Leviosa wouldn’t work again—it was too long a spell to incant properly wandless; too slow, too far a distance. Potter was falling and a drop-dead fall of one-hundred-and-fifty to two hundred yards above ground would kill even the Boy Who Lived deader than a bleeding doornail. Splat! No more—there’d be no more Potter.

“Accio, Potter!  ** _Accio, Potter_**!” Draco cried out with all that was in him, and sent his broom barreling backwards by instinct—for when Potter came, it would be swift and hard. Accio worked like that; young Wizards were warned about it and the dangers of being slammed by whatever it was they were attempting to Summon. Being hit full-on by the body of a thin but still muscular teenage boy was not going to be pain-free, by any means.

He braced himself. 

Draco looped as he moved, adjusting his angle, wrapping his legs round his own broom, controlling it with knees and locking his ankles. They’d likely bobble when he caught him; best to be prepared—and  _here he came_!

Like a meteorite, Potter was, sizzling through the dull grey sky, his ugly specs knocked away and stolen by the wind. Draco got his arms in the right place, still punting backwards, allowing the force of the Accio to play out, so the inevitable thump and crash of them colliding would be lessened by his reverse.

“ _Ommphh_! Ow!”

“Ahhhhh!”

He had an armful of warm Potter almost before he knew it, thumping the Hades out his diaphragm, forcing the wind right through him. Potter was still gyrating his limbs haplessly, his hands stretched for any possible purchase—he found it in Draco’s flyaway frigid hair and nearly also his eye socket. Draco tightened his thighs on the broomstick, gripping, muttering a fast Sticking Charm to keep Potter attached to him and them both attached to the wildly wobbly and rapidly sinking broom. Draco was flagging—he might be powerful, but he was young yet, and his endurance was well nigh exhausted. It was all he could do to keep them aloft.

“Ahhhh! AHHHH!” Potter was still yelping, the prick. Like a sodding banshee.

“Potter!  _Fuck_ , Potter—shut it! Pay attention. Head’s up!”

“Uh?” Potter was wall-eyed, gasping and looked just like a codswalloped trout. “Uh?” he puffed again. He tightened his fierce hold on Draco, fingers digging through uniform padding, shifting closer so that their legs entangled and the broom danced insanely as it gathered the awful inertia of ‘down!’ behind it.

They’d both be ‘splat’ in a moment, Draco realized—and realized, too, that he was fucking well knackered.

“Listen! Can you do wandless?” The green eyes widened and Draco huffed impatiently. “No! Fuck! Never mind, you dolt—I’ll do it.”

He gathered himself, shutting his eyes against the wind whipping tears from their corners, not looking at Potter’s gormless, bug-eyed viz; not thinking about just how damned fortunate he’d been for a simple Accio to have actually worked—and siphoned magical energy from the very air and vapour and thermals rising, just as he’d been taught his demented Aunt Bella.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” he cried out, reluctantly prying a hand off Potter’s too-thin ribcage to wave it at his own broom. “Wingardium Leviosa, damn it all the Merlin!”

Potter blinked at him—they were still falling, and Potter was helpless as a newborn kitten, flapping those curling soot-dark lashes like fans over those great green eyes of his, looking thunderstruck.

“You—You  _saved_ me,” he breathed, and Draco’s body spared the miniscule amount of energy required to flush, all over, head to foot. The blood climbed up his cheekbones in a rush, the only thing about either of them going upwards at the moment. 

“Fuck that!” he told Potter sharply, glancing below him.  _Fuck!_  “We need to go up. D’you know any wandless magic at all, dickweed? If you do, now’s the perfect time to use it!”

It was indeed. The red, freckled blob of that prat Weaselbee hove into view—they’d lost a hundred yards in the time it had taken to growl at Potter. They were falling—freefall now, with nothing to stop them and not a hair of hope left, and Draco ran endlessly through the words of all the Cushioning Charms he knew, bracing himself for the inevitable, thinking of how to land, which way to roll so as not to crush Potter totally beneath his weight. Stupid fucking Potter! He’d die because of him—didn’t he just know that would happen, one day?

“Oh!” Potter exclaimed. He blinked again, the git. “Up!”

Draco’s jaw dropped. The broom halted—spun. Kicked and bucked like a foal in a meadow.

“UP!” Potter said again, and—quick as winking—the shocked sound of the roaring crowd of spectators and stunned gape-jawed Quidditch players receded again. They were indeed going ‘up’. At speeds sufficient to rip the acid words of disbelief—that it wasn’t even a proper incantation; that Potter was an annoying little show-off; that he didn’t bloody well even  _believe_  this was happening—right off Draco’s tongue.

Up. Right through the scudding clouds, up. Endlessly up, the broom steadying at last beneath them, a pesky, annoying whirr and buzz encircling Draco’s head as they rose. So annoying, in fact, he stuck his hand out automatically to bat it away, that fucking insect, and found himself instead blankly regarding the Golden Snitch, fluttering in his palm, the frantic wing beats slowing in exact cadence with his own overworked heart. Dazed and confused, Draco pocketed it and stared at Potter.

Bloody fucking Potter.

“Gods!” Draco swore, all the pent-up frustration, the utter fury, the fear and anxiety and all of it—all!—in that one single syllable. “Don’t you  _ever_  do that to me again, you prick! You could’ve been killed—very nearly were, too!”

Potter grinned at him, unrepentant. He sifted the grubby fingers of one hand through Draco’s hair, feeling the razored tips and sorting them to individual strands of cornsilk. He tightened his other hand; wrapped his entire other arm ‘round Draco’s spine, in fact, and hauled him closer across the two inch gap of wooden broomstick yet between them, barnacling himself to Draco’s panting chest and torso as if he’d never, ever release it, come what may.

“You saved me,” he said again, in tones of wonder. “Thanks, mate.”

“Potter!” Draco huffed—he could barely respirate properly anyway, what with the shock and remembered terror. “You arsehole! Bloody look where you’re going next time, will you?”

It was silent, abruptly. Sunny and calm; they’d risen above the cloud level and were surrounded by the golden blanket of true sunlight, laid across the tips and tufts of the grey cotton candy just below them like a crisscrossed layer of pancake syrup. No birds flew here; not even raptors. No thestrals, even. Just them.

“Potter,” Draco was much calmer now, with the monstrously confusing rush of the wind receded. With his stomach lodged back where it should be—with Potter demonstrably safe and secure, and just  _here_ , in his arms. “Potter, don’t ever do that again,” he said seriously. “My heart can’t take it. You know how much it costs to cast a Wingardium across a distance?” he demanded rhetorically. “Let me tell you, prat—it’s not eas—“

Potter snogged him. One second Draco was beginning a fine rant on Potter’s incompetence and general gittishness and speccy-blind stupidity; the next he’d a mouthful of tongue to contend with, tasting of acid fear, swallowed-back bile and spearmint toothpaste. And toast and butter and jam and bacon.

“Gods! Potter? What?” Draco started, when he reclaimed his lips back from the Squid-like suction of Potter’s mouth. “What the _fuck_?”

“You saved me,” Potter purred, and then had the utter nerve to pet him, smoothing his hair back behind his ears, patting his shoulders, his back. “Thank you.”

“Well, of course I saved you!” Draco exclaimed, impatiently. “I lo—er.” He blinked at Potter, suddenly just as terrified as he’d been when Potter was falling and he couldn’t even begin to think anything beyond ‘NO!’ He gulped, doing his own fine impression of a stranded goldfish.

“Right,” Potter was still grinning—worse now; he looked altogether  _smug_ , the little shite. “Yes, that’s it. Me, too.”

“ _Wha_ —?” Draco gawped, and abruptly ceased his jabber, as the tongue was back, full force, and Potter was doing bleeding acrobatics five hundred feet—no, a thousand!—up in the endless sky, blithely insinuating himself onto Draco’s lap.

The floodgates shattered soundlessly. Boom!

They didn’t appear to require any time to learn their way ‘round each other’s mouths—not at all; fists and reckless scuffling had taken care of that long since. Draco knew every inch of Potter’s body intimately, and Potter knew him—almost carnally so, likely, any moment now, what with the way this snog was heading. Draco wheezed, feeling the earth shift below his feet. Far below, in fact, but it was the world within him that was sliding sideways and rearranging itself to a new and different shape, all neatly resorted in the space of one mindboggling, centuries-long snog.

“Potter,” he said, when at last he could. “You arse. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Gods, was that  _him_? Draco thought, his blond eyebrows climbing high in horrified disbelief. He sounded so—so soppy. So indulgent. Like a fool.

Potter’s grin was bloody well infectious. Draco rested his furrowed forehead against Potter’s and was grateful. He’d seen it now, up close, directed at him. Life—though now a damned different set of scenery—was a very good thing, indeed.

“Er, right, Malfoy,” Potter snickered. “As if. When, exactly,  _was_  I ever supposed to do that, I ask you? Between pranks? During a match, maybe? In  _Potions_?”

“Hah!” Draco snorted. “Snape’s face!” He couldn’t help but snort himself into chuckles, just imagining. Potter joined in, and they giggled helplessly for a moment, spinning lazy circles in the sunshine, falling endlessly into one another. Then it was snogging again, and hardened cocks rubbing through stiffened fabric, and Draco was breathing faster for a different reason.

“When we come down,” he started, burrowing his cheekbone against Potter’s, reluctant to ever cease this so-welcome touching, “when we do, because we have to, you realize, I’ll need—“

“Sanctuary,” Potter interjected, calmly, eyes aglitter with secrets. “Your Mum, too, I’d imagine. Can be arranged, Draco. Don’t fash yourself.”

Draco stared at him, the black of Potter’s enlarged pupils taking over his own vision. “Yes, and—“

“Shagging,” Potter nipped in. “We’ll need that, too, yeah? Right after we deal with  _them_ ,” he shrugged his shoulders carelessly at the no doubt madding crowds far below. Any moment now, Madame Hooch would be hovering on top of them, shouting orders, Draco thought. He shivered, not wanting to consider the fracas in the offing.

“Quidditch hut,” he replied, planning aloud instead. “Then Dumbledore, after.”

Potter smiled—a sly curve of lips that sent Draco’s chest into muddied convulsions and made the fabric stretching across his spread thighs—his cock was trapped right under Potter’s arsecrack, Merlin fuck it!—bind him painfully. Cruelly. He damned to all eternity what they’d have to go through when they touched down upon the filthy grass of the Pitch once more. All that wasted time, precious moments spent jabbering explanations to this one and that one, when they could be far better occupied bringing each other off in the showers. It was crying shame, that.

“Just so,” Potter agreed, apparently reading Draco’s mind. “Best to get it over with, right? Sooner we do that, the sooner—“

“I’m in you, Potter,” Draco finished. Potter’s one eyebrow quirked quizzically and Draco nodded firmly. “Yes, I am, Potter. Me, first. You fucking well owe me.”

“Well…” Potter looked as though he were debating that point silently. Then he grinned again and patted Draco’s pocket familiarly, fingers trailing down Draco’s hip after. The snitch—the one Draco had all but forgotten—quivered slightly, as did Draco’s dick. “Since you’ve won the match, I suppose I’ll be forced to admit that to the victor goes the spoils. I’m agreeable—I guess.  _This_  time,” he replied reluctantly. “But don’t be thinking it’s always going to be that way, Malfoy,” he added, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Because it’s not.”

Draco grinned in return, all the details and threads neatly tied up in  _his_  mind, at least, and allowed a gusty sigh of relief to escape him, sending Potter’s messy fringe fluttering over his scar. He kissed it, gently. With utmost care.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Potter,” he allowed equably, lips stretching hungrily over the glorious lissome curve of Potter’s jaw. “Not a poor winner.”

“Never thought you would be,” Potter smiled, too. He pecked Draco’s nose and wasn’t  _that_  just perfectly soppy and girlish? Draco winced at himself—loving it. “Now, snog me again,” Potter ordered, “so I’ve something to look forward to when Ron skins me after for shagging you, Malfoy. I need encouragement. Lots of encouragement—this isn’t going to be easy.”

Draco happily complied. He figured he might be doing rather of lot of that, in this brand new future of his. Potter always was a headstrong, arsy little git, given to taking a header off in entirely the opposite direction of good sense and reason. But—damn it! He was actually looking forward to it, for fuck’s sake! To watching Potter do his thing, up close and personal. To being there—helping him, if he could.

Merlin help  _him_. He’d fallen.

 


End file.
